Sometimes I have nothing to write. Sometimes writing is a burden. A passion sure…but an incredible weight. It is exposure. It is raw. Either you care, you don’t, you read it, or won’t. But it is intense to essentially say “Here- read my diary..” a diary of the pretty, the ugly, the grammar errors, the uncomfortable sides and angles of me…..
There is comfort in poetry as it can be cryptic and subjective. You may read it and absorb it in a way that applies to your life and have no idea why I wrote it and what it meant for me. For those that can pull out pieces and analyze deeper meanings and tones then perhaps they “heard” what I truly meant. But unless they ask or I explain then they could be wrong too. There is still that wall there, even if it is translucent. The great thing about exposure or confession in writing is that a writer doesn’t have to write poetry or memoir essays like me. There are little diary entries found all over fiction too!
I have many pieces that talk about all of this. Writing about writing. Poems about being a poet. Sometimes I’m annoyed that not everyone understands what I write. Other times it’s a relief to release that weight of emotion without being too deeply exposed. These sarcastic pieces of writing about writing are usually written as a way to look into the mirror at myself and remind myself why I still do what I do. Haven’t you ever questioned your job? Your purpose? Sometimes the sarcasm feels good and I can laugh at myself after. Sometimes it reminds me I need to take a break and come back later. Both serve their purpose.
Here is my most recent one – do you find any meaning just below the surface?
“I wrote lines for others
and lines for my mind
walked hills and mountains for peace.
I wrote stories with no point
stabbed fingers with points
waiting for the crescendo so I can leave.
I wrote lies on lines
and fed on them like chocolate
wearing smiles for people I deceive.
I wrote lyrics for gut songs
kinds that spin you along
wishing for more poetic things.
I wrote love letters to no one
lines with sad love that lingers
wasting my breath on fictional dreams.
I wrote nothing with nausea
and sold it anyways
watching you read my heart on my sleeve.
I wrote for the reflection
I wrote for the imposter
Woefully forgotten when I write for only me…”